Cleaned
by mpm18
Summary: Sins are worse when you are the only one to remember them. (one-shot)


Cleaned  
By MPM18  
Legal: The characters are the property of Marvel and a dozen other companies. They are not mine.  
Summary: Sins are worse when you are the only one to remember them.

* * *

He watched her peel the orange with her left hand and a fork. He spent a lot of time watching her, waiting to see how she handled things, how she'd changed.

"You always hated orange pulp under your fingernails," he murmured.

She laughed. "It feels like dried worms, and it stings." Her eyes met his, and she was happy. Health glowed in her face, and her eyes were warm when she looked at him. She didn't see Magneto in his pale features anymore, at least not like before.

"What's wrong?" Wanda asked as she put the peels into the trash, wiping her hands on her new jeans, still creased from the store. Her hands didn't shake in rage, and she put her hand over his, pressed it to the cool, clean counter. "You're not smirking enough."

Pietro laughed, and he smiled for her, the same arrogant grin he gave the others. "Just thinking."

"Does it hurt much?" She took a bite of one of the orange sections before using it to point at him, accusing. "Or did you steal another brain?"

He laughed because she expected it. She expected many things, as if twin-vibes existed after all this time, and he didn't mind anything except the laughing. "Well, you know," he started, and he winked.

Wanda waved the orange in front of him, holding it between her freshly painted nails. "Angsting doesn't suit you, brother dear."

This time, the smile was real, and he met her eyes for the first time in too long. This time, the sadness and doubt wouldn't make her wonder. "I'm a teenager," he stated with a flippant shrug. "It's all I know."

She moved her other hand to his arm, touching his worn and holey t-shirt, and squeezed it. There was a spark there; the same jolt of understanding her remembered when they were still young and running through their father's garden. They would run through mud and grass, and the stains would stick. They'd remember the fun of getting dirty.

The kitchen windows were open, and all he could smell was cleaner. Wanda was back in the house, and they were cleaning again. All the muck had been picked from the walls; all the pizza boxes were hidden away in trashcans. Someone had purchased new bowls and plates, so the old plastic butter tubs had been tossed into a forgotten drawer.

Yellow gingham curtains reached for him, enticing him with the beauty of a clean kitchen. The whole house was a clean slate, wrapped up for him in a scarlet bow with just a hit of citrus. All thanks to his unwavering loyalty to his father

"You're just stupid sometimes," Wanda stated. She pushed the bowl to him. "Take a piece. You're too skinny."

"Ah, there is the Jewish blood," Pietro quipped, but he didn't take any orange.

She grinned, shaking her head. Her hair sparkled in the light like raw hematite. "It won't kill you to add a little to that frame."

"You're just jealous that I weight less than you."

Wanda pushed the bowl closer to him, and her eyes were angry again, closer to Magneto's than they had been before. The anger was there, flaring and waiting to consume him again. "Take some. Now."

He reached in and took the smallest piece. He didn't relish the clean taste, the way it burned his mouth so all the sin was washed away. A piece of fruit to his lips, and it was supposed to suddenly feel like he'd never lied.

"Happy?" he asked.

Wanda nodded. "Danke, mi frère."

Pietro winced but snickered. "I think you killed all three languages in one blow."

She grinned, and it looked enough like his own that he picked up another piece of orange. "At least it's not Japanese."

He groaned. "Todd's anime will be the death of me." Pietro ate the fruit, let it slide down his throat without chewing. Wanda didn't section oranges, so there was no juice to burn him. It didn't feel bad this time; he could barely remember betrayal when he ate an orange like this.

"I think we need ice cream," she declared as she stole the last sliver of orange from the bowl and walked past him. She smelled like the house, clean, untouched. Even to look at her at times, you wouldn't think she'd lived a hard life.

Even the eyes could be cleaned like a dirty sink—taken and wiped so clean that all he could see was his reflection without buildup. The past was gone.

"Ice cream," he murmured, and he felt himself nodding. He liked to agree with her, before the citrus was gone. The sink always filled up again.

Her hand found his again, sticky from fruit, and he let himself fall into slow, steady steps beside her.

* * *

Thank you for reading. I haven't written fanfiction in so long, but this one just struck me. Please review, if you feel so inclined.


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